


Thicker Than Water

by DichotomyStudios



Category: Rizzoli & Isles, The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: 2K Round-up Challenge, Aftermath of Violence, Community: intoabar, Crossover, Episode Related, Families of Choice, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Magnificent Seven AU: ATF, Meet the Family, Road Trips, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DichotomyStudios/pseuds/DichotomyStudios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Federal Agent Chris Larabee goes to Boston to get a beer. And a boat. And maybe a different life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thicker Than Water

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Into a bar challenge of: Chris Larabee walks into a bar and meets Frankie Rizzoli, Jr.  
> JD Dunne and Jane Rizzoli are accounted for, but not present. 
> 
> Thanks to BMP for the beta. Sorry about the ziti, bb. :3

Gritting his teeth and swallowing the short-temper tirade that had been building for days, Chris Larabee got off his barstool and fished his i.d. out of his jeans.

“I said _slowly_ , mister. Don’t go making any sudden moves.”

The Boston beat cop had already rapped Chris twice on the shoulder demanding identification, and the snotty voice wasn’t helping Chris keep his cool. He tacked a warning glare to the tail-end of an eyeroll, and when he (s l o w l y) waved his wallet at the uniform, it was snatched away with a sharp look that said _You wanna spend the night downtown, smartass?_

At first glance, the officer didn’t look old enough to shave, but his dark eyes were guarded and his motions were careful. The kid might be young but he had experience, bad experience. It didn’t make Chris feel any friendlier to think they had something in common.

To keep himself from taking his wallet back, preferably by force, Chris put his hands on his hips and leaned closer, growling, “What’re you gonna arrest me for? I ain’t drunk and I wasn’t disorderly.”

The cop gave Chris an incredulous look and followed it up by wide-eyeballing the inside of the bar, inviting Chris to do the same. It was just as seedy as when Chris had arrived: one twitchy bartender in a neon-lit hellhole full of sketchy characters in dark corners where everything smelled like piss and beer, but now the place was bright, empty, and the hard-rocking jukebox was quiet. Where’d everybody go? And _when_? He’d missed a shitstorm of happenings, and that brought cold clarity like getting air after not even realizing you were damn near drowned.

“Last call was more than an hour ago, mister. Are you on something? Do I need to take you to detox for the night? Unless you got some kind of medical condition?” There was a new skittishness to the questions, but nothing Chris couldn’t understand. He’d lost a few nights in a bottle after his wife and son had been killed. He spent too much time tee-totaling to be called an alcoholic, but drinking and fighting had been mother’s milk and comfort food since before his Navy SEAL days. He didn’t _think_ he’d had a blackout, it didn’t feel like it, but, damn, he’d sure lost some time.

Looking at the huge, yellowing plastic clock behind the bar, Chris surreptitiously, instinctively, adjusted his stance like he was on deck, out to sea. Peripherally, the cop took a step back and put one hand on his holster, edging it toward his service pistol, while the other hand finally flipped open Chris’s wallet.

Chris rubbed his forehead and wondered where the fuck his night had gone. So much for doing a little fishing off the coast of Boston; one city where he knew no one, wouldn’t run into anyone, didn’t want to talk to anyone, had spontaneously traveled this far to _get away from everyone_ , and somehow he was this-close to getting sent to the drunk tank or, worse, a psychiatric hold. Either way, getting locked up was sure to kill his hope for a little quiet so he could make peace with writing out his resignation from the job.

Shit, the job. Had he really been sitting in some dive bar _not_ thinking about the job all night?

He barely heard the cop’s voice, but the whisper kept getting louder and more insistent. “Lar-a-bee. Did I pronounce that right? Christopher Larabee? Why do you have an Interpol i.d., Mister Larabee? Wait, you’re _Chris Larabee_? Holy moly, this is an ATF badge, and… this thing from the President… no way, it really _is_ you. Oh my god, Tommy! Tommy, do you know who this is?“ The cop was chattering at the silent bartender, arms flailing like he was directing air traffic. It reminded Chris of the first time he’d met JD Dunne. The kid had been overly earnest and excited as a puppy. _Hire me, I’m good, you won’t regret it, I can do the job, let me prove it._ Full of ego and ambition, according to Buck.

What the kid had been full of was faith and trust.

The guilt stole up on Chris so fast he cringed. That same JD had haunted eyes now, _accusing eyes_ , while laid up in the hospital. He’d live, they’d all live, they’d all gone back to work while JD recuperated, but the job… the goddamned _job_. His team had been granted a tremendous amount of power and they shamelessly used every bit of it and then some, but it didn’t matter. The job never got any better, they never managed to change a thing on foreign _or_ domestic soil, and sooner or later one or more of his men would be in the hospital again. The hospital if they were _lucky_.

Enthusiastic hands and big eyes weaved too close to Chris’s face, surprising him into a flinch, and the flinch reminded him that, yeah, he was going to have to start paying attention or he was going to earn that psychiatric hold. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. Are you here on business? Is your team here?” In a whisper, like they weren't almost alone, “Are you tracking someone?” A scuttled look at the bartender who looked confused. “I know you guys operate on high security, but that’s just my little brother, Tommy. He’s the one who called me to…” A flush of embarrassment. “I was on my way home and he asked if I could come get you out of here so he could close up. He said you were unresponsive.” The cop stepped close, eyes intent on Chris’s face. “Uh, Agent Larabee? _Are_ you okay? You look a little…” A glance at the half-glass of beer on the bar next to them was followed by a questioning look at the bartender.

“He only ordered the one, Frankie. He paid, and then I got a whole lot of nothin’. Guy just sat there.” _My brother, Tommy._ Chris could see the family resemblance now that he was looking for it. That explained why the uniform had been so pushy; he’d been protecting his brother. That was easy to respect, easier to understand. Chris shifted his stance a little, and tried to relax.

“Can I call someone for you, sir? Anything I can help with?” The question was loaded with _protect and serve_. But Chris wasn't family. This time the cop was just doing his job.

Chris shook his head. “I’m fine. I just haven’t slept in…” Shit, when was the last time he’d slept? 48 hours? More? He’d driven cross country to Boston without stopping. He’d taken a detour through Indiana but hadn't gone home. He remembered almost tossing his cellphone out the window in Pennsylvania—deciding to keep it and just turn it off. But he couldn’t remember what time he’d arrived in Boston. Had he eaten anything? He scrubbed roughly through his hair and stood up straight, finally hearing his body complaining. “Look, Officer-“

“Crap! I mean- Rizzoli! Frankie Rizzoli. Call me Frankie.” Chris nodded, frowning at the way the kid was looking at him. The last thing he needed was anybody else putting him on a stupid pedestal.

“Officer Rizzoli, I’m just tired. I’m not here on business, so if it’s all the same to you I’ll collect my things and be on my way.” He held out his hand and Officer Rizzoli returned Chris’s wallet like it was suddenly on fire. Chris turned to go, nodding at the bartender, Tommy, mostly a goodbye, but closer to an apology. At least there had been no brawling this time.

Officer _Call me Frankie_ Rizzoli stopped him. “Wait! You’re not working? You gotta meet my sister! Please tell me you’re in town long enough to meet my sister? She’s the reason I know who you are. Not that- I wouldn’t have known who you guys are eventually,” he added sheepishly. “You guys are like superheroes, but the media does a good job of keeping your team on the down low. My sister, Jane, though, she… can I tell you something personal, Agent Larabee?” There was a long, serious pause while Chris did his best not to inch toward the exit. “She’s a detective, the best damn detective Boston has. That’s not the personal part. See, we work together at the precinct, and we got held hostage last year. The whole HQ got taken over. It was pretty bad.” Officer Rizzoli's young face aged in seconds, and his eyes looked so much like JD's, Chris wanted to turn away. “I would have died, but Jane, she saved me. And she stopped the standoff, too. You know how? The gunman was holding her as a shield, and she shot herself. She aimed that bullet through herself to shoot _him_.” He pointed a finger pistol at his own body, recreating the event for Chris. But Chris understood perfectly. “You know where she learned that, don’t you? She couldn’t stop talking about that story for a week. ‘Federal Agent Larabee Shoots Self To Save Hostages!’ Do you remember that? She won’t admit it but I think she kept the newspaper clipping.” Officer Rizzoli smiled at Chris, then laughed, his dark eyes bright and shiny and young again. “Don’t you see? People are alive today because she was inspired by what you did years ago.”

Uncomfortable, Chris said, “Shooting yourself is--“

“Crazy? Not heroic? Or maybe you were,” Officer Rizzoli put finger quotes in the air, “’just doing the job.’ That’s what Janie said, too, but even if we weren't related, the uniform makes us family. Sure, maybe it could have gone wrong, but this time it worked. People lived. I lived. And now you’re here so I can thank you in person. _Thank you_.” Officer Rizzoli extended his hand like a lifesaver, and Chris stared at it, feeling guilty for wanting to accept it, wondering if he waited too long would it be pulled away. But the hand stayed and hovered, stubborn, reminding him of JD again, and Chris grabbed it, withstood the gentle squeeze and the warmth in Frankie’s eyes. The kid wore his heart on his sleeve, just like JD. “I don’t, uh, presume to know what’s going on with you, but my sister’s been through some rough stuff and- I think you would get along. She’s a badass, too. Just don’t tell her I said that. Hey, you like home cooking? Traditional Sunday meal at my ma’s tomorrow. She makes the best marinara and baked ziti.” His dark brows waggled. “What do you say? Come by, meet the rest of my family?”

Chris considered saying yes. He’d left his own family behind and come to a port city for a reason. Lots of reasons. Guilt, fear, anger, exhaustion. Desperation. The vague oblivion of the sea remained; the promise of a boat big enough to live on, and sailing far from shore, surrounded by nothing but rolling waves and sunsets and sunrises for days on end, but… but. People were depending on him. He had responsibilities. He’d made promises, professional promises, personal promises. It was the personal promises that made him pull out his cellphone and turn it back on.

He held up one finger so Officer Frankie Rizzoli would give him a minute, and he turned away to watch his cellphone. Cheerful chimes played before an angry beep accompanied the message that he had 42 voicemails. Well, it was better than having zero voicemails. He smiled. “Officer Rizzoli, Frankie, I’m gonna have to take a rain check. I really need to get home. But, first, I need to find a hotel and get some sleep.”

Frankie bounced around him excitedly as they walked to the door. “Are you sure? My sister is gonna kill me when she finds out I met you and she didn’t. Okay, okay, do you have a hotel? I know a great hotel. Do you have a car? Do you need a ride? I could drive you. Hey, I know you used to be a cop like me. Maybe you could give me some advice about making detective? You don’t know how many times I’ve thought of quitting the force because you just don’t accomplish much in a uniform. Traffic tickets, paperwork, nothing meaningful. I want to make a real difference like you guys.”

“If you want to make detective, sure, I’ll tell you what I can… but, trust me, Frankie, you’ve made a difference.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [42 Messages](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1882728) by [GSister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GSister/pseuds/GSister)




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